By the end of the week, everything had come together.
Eddie and Nick had discussed the director position, realized they both had some interest and some reservations, and spoken to Lu about whether the job’s duties could be divided so that they could serve as codirectors, still doing fieldwork on occasion. Lu liked the idea and had floated it up the chain but was still waiting to hear from the higher-ups to see if it would fly.
Thanks to Dustin Haverkamp’s notebook, I was able to discern which dating sites he’d used and identify his other victims. If he decided to plead not guilty to the fraud and tax evasion charges, I had forty women and three men more than willing to testify against him. With eighty grand stolen, most of it spent, and none of it reported on his tax return, he’d no longer get a mere slap on the wrist. He’d serve some jail time and spend several years having his life overseen by a parole officer.
Neener-neener.
Documentation and information continued to roll in from those involved in Flo Cash’s bartering site, as well as those with whom she’d traded advertising independent of the the site. But I had enough irrefutable evidence now that she’d enjoyed hundreds of thousands of dollars in tax-free services and products in exchange for radio promotions and reported none of it as compensation.
Armed with this documentation and with Ross O’Donnell by my side, I returned to Judge Trumbull’s courtroom early Friday morning to request an order requiring the domain registry to turn over the name of the owner of TradingPost.com.
As I stepped up to the bench with my stack of documentation, Judge Trumbull looked down at the papers and sighed. “It’s Friday and it’s been a long week. Please tell me I don’t have to read all of that.”
“You don’t.” I pulled my spreadsheet off the top. “I’ve made a summary.”
“Thank God. If I had to go through all of that documentation I’d knock myself in the head with my gavel.”
I handed her the spreadsheet. “This page lists the value of barter transactions that were conducted with Florence Cash, who owns and manages KCSH Radio Corporation. She traded the radio corporation’s advertising services for personal items for her own use. Meals, car maintenance, even a mattress set.”
The judge ran her eyes over the page. “She owes over two hundred grand in taxes?”
I nodded. “She’s been doing these exchanges for years. Things have really added up.”
“Okay,” Trumbull replied. “I’m with you so far.”
Good. I handed her a second page. “Max Brady, the owner of Mister Sandman Mattresses and More, signed this affidavit testifying that Flo Cash suggested he sign up on a Web site called TradingPost.com, which operated an extensive barter exchange network. Trading Post never filed the required tax reports for the exchanges it facilitated, and even falsely stated on its site that barter transactions are tax-free and not subject to reporting.”
The judge raised a finger to silence me as she read the affidavit. When she finished, she looked up. “Go on.”
“Flo Cash signed up for a private Web site,” I told the judge. “That means I need an order requiring the domain registry to reveal her as the owner of the bartering site.”
“All right,” Trumbull said, picking up her pen. “You’ve convinced me.” She signed the order with a flourish and handed it to me along with the affidavit.
“Thanks, Your Honor. Have a good weekend.”
I thanked Ross for his assistance, too, and returned to my office. There I tuned my radio to KCSH, phoned the domain registry, and asked to speak to their legal department. Once I had an attorney on the line, I said, “I’ve got a court order to send you. I need to find out who owns a domain. Any chance you might be able to get to it this morning?”
“Sure,” the woman said. “It doesn’t take long. If you e-mail the order to me I can take a look while you’ve got me on the phone.”
“Wow. I hadn’t expected such a fast turnaround. But I appreciate it very much.”
“Forget about it,” she said. “I used to work for the state attorney general’s office. I know how frustrating it can be to get information out of people.”
She gave me an e-mail address and I sent the order over via attachment.
“I see it,” she said a few seconds later. She mumbled into her mouthpiece as she apparently read it over. “Okay. Let’s take a look.” I heard the tapping of fingers on a keyboard. “According to our records, the owner of TradingPost.com is someone named Florence Cash.”
Yes! “That’s what I’d hoped to hear. What address did she provide?”
The attorney rattled it off. Flo had given the radio station’s address.
“Can you send me a copy of your registration records?” I asked.
“I’d be happy to.”
I thanked the woman and, a minute later, the domain registry popped up in my e-mail in-box. I printed it out and added it to my stack of evidence against Flo Cash.
I carried the documentation down to the copy room and ran the stack of papers through the machine, making a copy of everything for Flo. She and I were due for a come-to-Jesus meeting.
Lu walked in for a coffee refill as the papers were swish-swish-swishing through the copy machine.
“Good job on the catfisher case,” she said as she filled her cup. “Where do things stand with Flo Cash?”
“I’m on my way to see her.” I motioned to the machine. “Just as soon as the copies are ready.”
“Good,” Lu said. “I’ve got a backlog I need to assign. Since you seem to be wrapping up your biggest investigations, I’ll send some of the new cases your way.”
No such thing as downtime on this job.
The papers stopped swishing, the copies complete. Before leaving the room, I snatched an empty copy paper box from the recycle bin to carry the paperwork in.
It was a few minutes before eleven when I pulled into the parking lot of KCSH. The Flo Cash Cash Flow Show was beginning to wrap up.
I carried the copy paper box to the door. Though the young woman at the desk inside looked up and made eye contact with me through the glass, she made no move to come open the door for me. Looked like those donuts I’d brought to the station hadn’t bought me any goodwill. Not even the one with three inches of pink frosting on top.
“Buzz me in!” I called. I placed the box on the ground, pulled the door open when I heard the lock release, and held the door open with my butt as I picked the box back up and stepped inside. “Good morning. I need to speak with Flo.”
The young woman pointed up at the speaker, over which Flo’s voice could be heard. “She’s still on the air.”
“I’ll wait.” I put the box on one of the chairs and sat down in another.
A minute later, Flo issued her standard sign-off. “Make your money make money for you!”
I eyed the receptionist, cocked my head, and pointed to the speaker, which was now broadcasting the introductory theme music for a syndicated show.
Exhaling a long breath, she stood and went through the door behind her to speak with Flo. A moment later she returned. “Go on back.”
“Thanks.” I grabbed the box and managed to catch the door with my foot before it swung closed. I carried the box down the short hallway to Flo’s booth. The door was closed, but since it and the upper part of her booth were glass, there was no need for me to knock to announce my presence. She could see me through the window.
Flo’s eyes went from my face to the box in my hand and back. Like her receptionist, Flo made no move to get out of her cushy chair and open the door for me. She merely stared me down while sipping steaming tea from her oversized mug. Obviously, her mother hadn’t sent her to Miss Cecily’s Charm School.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I muttered to myself. I repeated the same process I’d done at the main door, setting the box on the floor and holding the door open with my butt to carry it into the booth. As I eased through, the two tech guys in the room across the hall eyed me through the glass before turning back to their work.
Flo’s door swung shut behind me.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here,” she spat, “after everything you’ve cost me.”
I dropped the box at her feet. “I’m about to cost you a lot more.”
She looked down at the box but made no move to open it or peruse the contents. Rather, she tugged on the string to the tea bag in her mug, steam rising from the surface as she repeatedly and aggressively dunked the bag.
I gestured to the box. “That’s the documentation your advertisers and the Trading Post participants have provided to me so far.” I pulled the lid off the box, retrieved the copy of the spreadsheet, and held it out to her. “You owe two hundred and thirty-six thousand dollars in taxes, interest, and penalties so far. Of course, that number is going to go up as more evidence comes in, and that doesn’t include what you’ll owe in sales tax. The state comptroller’s office will be in touch with you about that.”
She made no move to take the spreadsheet from my hand.
“Look,” I said, “the less you cooperate, the worse it’s going to be for you. I came here as a courtesy to let you know where things stand.”
“A courtesy?” She stopped tugging the string and smirked. “You call this a courtesy?”
“Actually, yes. I could’ve come to arrest you, but instead I’d hoped maybe you’d come to your senses and we could work something out.”
“Senses?” Flo stood, her fingers wrapped around the dollar-sign handle of the mug, its bottom cradled in her other hand. As she stared at me, something dark and evil flashed in her eyes. “Here’s some senses for you!”
Before my mind could process her movements, she flung the contents of the mug at my face. Piping-hot tea washed over my skin, scalding my face, the tea bag sticking momentarily to my forehead before falling to the floor with a soft, soggy thup.
Flo smirked at me, her expression self-righteous and smug. Or at least it was until my blood began to boil as hot as my face and I pounced on her. Then her expression was sheer terror.
Having suffered full-body impact from a human projectile—me—Flo fell backward over her console, her ass hitting the control panel. Click. The “ON AIR” light illuminated over the booth. We’d gone live. Ironic, really, because at the moment the two of us wanted nothing more than to kill each other.
With a primal roar Flo pushed herself off the console, inadvertently pressing several of the sound-effect buttons. Kaboom! Bzzz! Aoogah! Wielding her now-empty mug over her head like a weapon, she rushed at me with the force and fury of a Cowboys offensive lineman.
I threw myself to the side while raising my forearm to block her. It was an effective maneuver. While she’d managed to push me back a foot or two, I’d managed to block her attempts to impose blunt-force trauma to my already-blistered face.
She spun around to come at me again. She hurled the mug at me but missed. The mug landed on the console but remained intact, rolling across three of the sound-effect buttons. The clock. Tick-tock. The laugh track. “Ha-ha-ha!” The scream. “Aaaaah!”
The mug having proven ineffective, Flo hurled herself at me now. “You bitch!”
She knocked me back over the sound panel. Arf! Arf-arf! The effect was an appropriate follow-up to the insult she’d slung.
“I’m going to kill you!” she shrieked.
With thousands of listeners tuned in, I knew better than to respond out loud. But inside my mind I yelled back at her, Not if I kill you first!
We struggled for several seconds—Quack-quack! Kaboom!—as Flo tried to pin me to the control panel. Knobs and buttons and switches poked me in the ass, thighs, and back as I squirmed. Screech! Ding-dong! Flushhh! Boing!
Though I fought as hard as I could, Flo had a forty-pound advantage on me. Normally my weapon skills would compensate, but with her on top of me I couldn’t get to my gun or pepper spray.
I rolled to my right, apparently activating the barnyard sound section of the keyboard. Cluck-cluck! Baaa! Oink-oink! Moooo!
I rolled to my left, across the superhero series. Crash! Bang! Pow! Bam!
By this point, Flo’s entire three-person staff had come to the hallway and stood at the glass watching us brawl, their expressions dumbfounded, their mouths gaping. None of them made a move to get involved. At this point, they probably weren’t sure whose side to be on.
When I slapped at Flo’s face she grabbed my wrists and forced my arms up over my head. If she thought that would disable me, she’d thought wrong. I might look scrawny, but I was scrappy.
Ding-dong! Tick-tock! Kaboom!
Pulling my knees up, I put my Doc Martens to her belly and used my legs to shove her back with every bit of might I could muster. The force sent her sailing in reverse across the room. She tripped over the leg of her rolling chair and sprawled to the floor, landing flat on her ass. Fwump!
“That’s enough!” I hollered, pushing myself off the console and onto my feet. Oink-oink! Chirp-chirp! Boing! “This is over!”
Flo glared up at me from the floor, her eyes ablaze. “I’ll tell you when it’s over!”
Before I could free my gun from its holster she launched from the floor as if she had rocket boosters on her butt. I did the only thing I could at that point. Grab her mug from the console and swing it at her head.
THUNK!!!
Looked like the fortune cookie was right. An empty vessel does make the loudest sound.
Flo hovered in front of me for a moment, as if in suspended animation. Then her eyes rolled back, her knees buckled, and she flopped in a heap to the floor.
Knowing the staff standing frozen in the hall could hear the broadcast, I grabbed the microphone. “Can someone call an ambulance?”
The guys just stood there with their mouths hanging open, but the receptionist scurried back through the door to make the call at her desk.
Exhausted, I dropped into Flo’s chair and looked down at her. What a shame. She’d inherited a profitable business and turned it to shit. With any luck, someone else would buy KCSH, polish the turd, and turn the station back into the aboveboard, valuable enterprise it had once been.
After checking to make sure Flo was still breathing and had a pulse—check and check—I glanced over at the console. As long as I was here, I might as well jump on the microphone and give the world that public service announcement it needed.
I pulled the device toward me and spoke into it. “Hello, everyone out there in radioland. Yo-yo-yo! Special Agent Tara Holloway is in the house!” I jabbed the “applause” button. Clap-clap-clap!
I continued my broadcast, though I ditched the hip-hop DJ voice. “You might be wondering why the Internal Revenue Service is here at KCSH. Well, I’ll explain it to you. Flo Cash has been engaging in something called barter. Barter is where two parties exchange goods or services rather than paying cash for them.” I hit the cash register sound-effect button. Cha-ching!
“There’s nothing illegal about barter,” I said, “but the thing to remember is that all business transactions are subject to reporting and tax. And when a person receives an in-kind payment in exchange for work, that payment is taxable compensation. So be sure you report and pay tax on any exchanges you make, okay?”
Hey, this radio thing is kind of fun!
“While I’m here, let me give you a little what-what about online scams, help you protect yourself. Just yesterday I arrested a catfishing Casanova who’d found women and men on dating sites, gained their trust, and asked them to cash checks for him. He gave some sob story about a stepson who’d drained his bank account. Don’t fall for these scams, folks! If someone tells you that a bank can tell immediately whether a check is legit or bogus, they are lying to you. It takes several days for your bank to run a check through the network and discover that the account either is empty or doesn’t exist. Protect yourselves, people!”
The three-line phone lit up, all lines flashing with incoming calls. I pushed the first button. “Hello, caller. You’re on the air.”
“Hi,” came a man’s voice. “I was wondering whether my teenage daughter needs to report her babysitting earnings on a tax return.”
I hit the sound-effect button labeled: Coo. I got lucky. It was the coo of a baby, not a dove. Goo-goo-ga-ga.
“Good question, sir,” I replied. “If and how your daughter reports depends on whether her babysitting activities are regular enough to constitute a trade or business and how much she earns.”
“She only watches kids on occasion,” he said. “She bring in about two or three hundred dollars a year.”
“Does she have any other income?”
“Just allowance.”
“Then no need to report. She’s below the filing threshold.” I thanked him for his call and pushed the second button. “Hello, caller. What’s your question?”
It was a woman this time. “I’m a stay-at-home mom,” she said. “Somebody said I could open an IRA to save for retirement, but I thought you could only have an IRA if you earned money at a job.”
“Whoever that somebody was is right. A nonworking spouse can qualify to contribute to an IRA. For more details, check out the IRS Web site.”
I pushed the third button. “Hello, caller. What’s your question?”
Lu’s voice came over the airwaves. “My question is what the hell is going on over there?”
“Hello, Lu!” I called. “Listeners, this caller is my boss, Lu. She’s one hell of a woman and a cancer survivor.” I hit the “applause” button. Clap-clap-clap! “As for what’s going on over here, I bested Flo Cash and now I’m dropping some knowledge on the good folks of Dallas.”
“Once the medics arrive,” Lu said, “get back to the office.”
“Will do. Thanks for your call.”
I answered a couple more questions, one about treasury bonds and another about tax-preferred ways to fund college education expenses, before the EMTs showed up. Two loaded a groaning Flo onto a stretcher and wheeled her out the door while another dabbed ointment on my blistered face.
“That ought to do ya’,” he said, screwing the cap back on the tube.
Once the medics were gone, I picked up the microphone and stood. “This has been fun, y’all! Remember to file on time and file accurately. Special Agent Tara Holloway out!”
I lifted the mic over my head and dropped it, cool-style. Unfortunately, I wasn’t as cool as I’d thought. The mic hit the steel toe of my Doc Martens and gave the listeners an earsplitting KUNK before softly thudding to the floor. Oops.